


The Special Relationship

by MacPherson



Category: British Royalty RPF, Original Work, Royalty RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dutiful American diplomat. The charismatic, hard-partying second son of the future king. What could possibly go wrong? Or, rather, what could possibly go right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bright Eyes

The whole thing is ridiculous, really.

For months--years--the articles have piled up, speculating on what this _means_ and what to expect from us in the future. For years, the specter of our future has hung over us, and over me in particular, because hey, he was born to this and doesn’t really have a choice. But for me…

For years, people have been asking us, and we’ve been asking ourselves, what does our future look like?

And this morning, the future becomes today.

I thought that shaking his hand that day would be an amusing footnote in the lifestory I was writing. But that day, we took each other’s hands for the first time, and we never really let go. And today, we will take each other right hand by right hand once again. The Archbishop of Canterbury will wrap his stole around our hands, and proclaim the words that will make us one.

And when that happens, it will feel like the whole world is watching, which probably won't be far from the truth. Barring some huge scandal and/or unanticipated natural disaster, we will be on every front page in the world tomorrow, after we’re the lead on every evening news broadcast tonight. Our faces have been plastered everywhere since the announcement was made, seven months ago. The fuss has reached truly dizzying levels of absurdity. Yet at the center of it, we’re just… us. The same people we've always been, and yet, so incredibly different.

I was a fairly well-traveled woman of the world when we met, but none of the experiences or education I had could have prepared me for what was to come. Neither my Navy brat upbringing or my international relations degree or State Department training taught me how to handle instantly becoming the top paparazzi target in the world.

But here I am, four years later, waking up in a hotel where a single night costs more than the monthly rent in the apartment that’s been my home for more than five years.

It’s five am. I have six more hours until I step out of that car at Westminster Abbey, and everything changes forever.


	2. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t you shut your face for ten minutes and just enjoy how pretty he is?”

It happened on a Wednesday.

I’ve always had an irrational dislike for Wednesdays--everyone is so excited that it’s Hump Day, because apparently that’s a thing--but it always feels like you should be further into the week than you actually are.

This particular Wednesday was in late September, shortly after my twenty-fourth birthday, and my workplace was in utter chaos.

I worked at the American Embassy in London. After more than a decade of bureaucracy and three years of construction, we finally had our shiny, brand new building.  This was great news for me, because the new building was less than half a mile from my flat, taking my commute from 45 minutes on the Tube every morning if I was lucky to a 20 minute walk through Hyde Park. Bliss.

We had just completed our move from the old Embassy building to the new one, and this particular Wednesday was the day of the ceremonial opening of the new Embassy, even though we’d been working there for three weeks already.

The reason everyone was so damn excited about this (other than the new building actually having windows, after the previous one, built in the ‘70s, which looked like a penitentiary) was that our guest of honor at the ceremony, helping the Ambassador officially open the building, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, was Prince Jamie.

Prince Jamie— the Party Prince. Prince Playboy, the walking tabloid scandal. Twenty-seven, and goes through girls like my family went through my childhood homes. There had been allegations of cheating at Cambridge that were brushed under the rug. He had one serious girlfriend while at Eton and hadn’t had a steady relationship since—he had spent the last decade dating his way through the aristocracy. Although, to be fair, if my father was caught by the tabloids with his hands up his mistress’s skirt while my beloved mother was dying of incurable thyroid cancer, I’m sure I would be a little screwed up too.

Regardless of what is actually going on in his psyche, they stuck him in the Royal Navy on a base in Portsmouth where he couldn’t cause much trouble.

But for some reason, someone decided that having him help us officially open our new Embassy building was a good idea. Whoever decided that should be fired.

Didn’t America revolt against Britain to get rid of the Royal Family anyway? I mean, the reality is slightly more complicated than that, but the idea was that we wanted our leaders and the laws they enacted to represent the views of the people. We didn’t want someone’s bloodline to determine their destiny, or the destiny of the nation. But here we are, welcoming the man who is third in line to the throne onto what is legally American soil in the middle of London’s most posh neighborhood. I was sure he’d feel right at home. After all, he was photographed by paparazzi falling out of a club three blocks away last week.

I got to work at ten minutes to eight that morning— and for me, if you’re ten minutes early, you’re practically late. Nevertheless, Sam Stevens was at my desk already, coffee in hand, relentlessly happy as always. Sam is, I guess, my best friend in London, as the person I really consider to be my best friend is currently in Baltimore, teaching middle schoolers with Teach for America.

Sam is a walking contradiction. Peppy, preppy, and blonde, lives for gossip, and works as an analyst for the Department of Homeland Security. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

She’s always the first person into the office. My efforts to beat her in on Monday mornings have utterly failed. And when I arrive, she’s always perched on my desk, having read the morning tabloids, ready to spew the latest gossip at me, which I really don’t want to hear.

And given that today, the likelihood of our meeting a legit prince was quite high, she was bouncing off the walls already.

“Happy Most Eligible Bachelor in the World Day!” She chirped.

I glared at her.

“Don’t you have actual work to do? I have a meeting about the E.U. summit in half an hour that I really need to prep for.” I said, setting down my bag and taking off my blazer. “And it’s not like he’s going to marry either one of us.”

“You never know, Ellie. Maybe a feisty redhead is exactly what he needs to tame his wild ways— you know, keep him in line.”

“I have told you a million times that I basically consider the word ‘feisty’ to be an ethnic slur against redheads. Besides, just last week, you were whining to me that he usually goes for brunettes.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Even princes have to switch it up every once in a while. Ceremony starts at eleven.” She pointed her finger at me menacingly. “Be there or be square. Remember, I know how to murder you without leaving a speck of evidence.”

“Point taken.”

She hopped off my desk and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder, “Besides, how often do you get paid to day drink?”

She disappeared around a corner, heading up three floors to her office.

I had to admit that she had a point about the day drinking. If I was dedicating half my morning and all of my afternoon to this asinine spectacle, I might as well enjoy it.

My E.U. Summit prep meeting was insufferable. It lasted an hour and a half. Of the eighteen of us, I was the only one under forty-five, and one of only three women. Sometimes I’m amazed at how little actually gets done at those meetings. Forty-five minutes was dedicated to the seating plan for lunch on Day Two. Forty. Five. Minutes. And those forty-five minutes were not dedicated to the entire seating plan, oh no. They were dedicated to the possible arrangements of the heads of government of Germany, Spain, Liechtenstein, and Italy. The heads in question all hate each other’s guts, and for some reason, the staff of the American Embassy in London felt the need to weigh in on how the Belgians hosting the event should arrange the seating for lunch on day two.

I was ready to throw things by the time the meeting ended. The ceremony was to start in the courtyard in an hour, but at T–minus forty-seven minutes, Sam was at my desk, grabbing my arm and dragging me downstairs so we could position ourselves at the front, to get the best possible view. I love her, I really do, but she just pisses me off so much sometimes.

Mercifully, the bar was open when we got downstairs, and the buffet selections were better than I anticipated. Your tax dollars at work, etc. Sam furnished herself with a Bloody Mary, and told the bartender she would be back for more celery. Sam insists that Bloody Marys are an energy drink, and likes to remind me that because celery is mostly water, you actually burn more calories chewing it than you consume. I decided that I would be responsible, at least for now, and have a glass of pinot grigio. Sam and I always ended particularly stressful days by knocking back shots of tequila at a trashy bar in Piccadilly anyway, so I was planning to take it easy during the day. Sam, however, could drink Hemingway under the table with one hand tied behind her back.

As we got closer to the start of the ceremony, the crowd in the courtyard grew until just about everyone who worked in the building was outside, mingling. We were herded over to an area of the courtyard set up for the ceremony. It looked like it was set up for a wedding. White folding chairs were set up in two blocks on each side of an aisle, with a small stage in front. There was a podium on the stage, with the seal of the State Department adorning it, and a few seats behind, where the VIPs would sit— namely the head of each department, the Ambassador, and the Party Prince.

Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me to a seat in the second row. She insisted that we be close enough to catch Party Prince’s eye. Really? I wanted to sit at the very back so I could sneak away as quickly and as quietly as possible. I had told a friend of mine who worked for the Prime Minister that I would have dinner with him that night, and I also had a briefing packet to finish. I’m all for public diplomacy and networking, but not if it comes at the expense of the real work we’re supposed to be doing.

The ceremony finally started. We heard from each department head, including my boss, Frank Wallace. As each of them spoke, I swear I saw Prince Jamie stifling yawns.

I’m not saying I didn’t understand his appeal. He’s actually really attractive, especially when you’re less than thirty feet away from him. He’s tall, obviously quite fit, and dresses well. In his dark gray suit and silky blue tie, he looked like a Brooks Brothers model, but with less existential angst and less hair product. I really could spout all kinds of romance novel, chick flick nonsense about his facial bone structure. His abs were probably fairly chiseled, too. And I could see what people mean about his eyes being “piercing.” The combination of dark hair and light gray eyes really is striking, especially when he’s looking right at you, paying absolutely no attention to the speech being given by the Director of Economic Affairs.

Shit.

He was staring right at me.

And I was staring right back.

I am way too mature for this.

I get that he’s attractive. Really, I do. And I get that he has this reputation for charming the clothes off all the posh girls. I just don’t understand why his DNA makes him more swoonworthy than, say, Mike in accounting, who is very good-looking, and sweet to boot.

Party Prince was practically born with the word “privilege” tattooed on his forehead, and from what I can tell, has done absolutely nothing else to deserve our praise.

But there he was.

The Deputy Ambassador introduced him, and he strode up to the podium. He rustled his notes a little, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

God, his accent is so posh.

I felt Sam lean towards me.

“Damn,” she whispered in my ear. “My knees are weak and I’m already sitting down.”

“Why is he so special?” I hissed back. “What has he done to deserve this?”

“Can’t you shut your face for ten minutes and just enjoy how pretty he is?”

I sighed into my pinot. I was going to need a lot of tequila tonight.

Party Prince talked about the important friendship between the United States and Great Britain. He talked about how we have long been partners and allies in seeking peace and justice around the world, and about how the friendship between the two nations was known as “the special relationship.”

I rolled my eyes, and whispered to Sam. “It’s really a shame about the War of 1812 getting in the way of that special relationship, isn’t it?”

She snorted unattractively into her drink.

Party Prince talked about architecture, and how the Embassy had been a collaboration between architects and builders from both countries, and how it was ecologically sustainable, and a sign of the friendship between us.

Then, mercifully, he was done. However, the crowd felt it necessary to give him a standing ovation for what was a well-delivered if entirely predictable, boring, and mediocre speech. He smiled, gave us a little wave, shook the Ambassador’s hand, and sat down.

Then the Ambassador gave an equally predictable speech, thanking Prince Jamie for his inspiring words and pledging to uphold the special relationship through the work of the Embassy, which was a sign of the goodwill of the American people, blah, blah, blah.

Everyone clapped, the Ambassador and the Prince cut a red ribbon across the front door of the Embassy that we had all been using for three weeks, and Sam and I fled to the buffet table.

I was biting into a piece of pineapple when Sam said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Are you kidding? I’m missing the Prime Minister’s Questions for this.”

Sam’s eyes bugged out of her head. I didn’t think that what I had said was all that scandalous, but then I heard a throat clear behind me.

“Miss Banks?”

I spun around, finding myself face to face with Ambassador Greene, and face to neck with the Party Prince himself.

“Mr Ambassador! Lovely to see you! Marvelous speech, as always.” Open mouth, insert foot.

Sam was trying very hard not to burst out laughing, and was not entirely successful. Still, she was managing to bat her eyelashes at the prince while nearly choking on her drink, which I found to be quite impressive multi-tasking.

“Thank you.” The Ambassador turned to the prince. “Your Royal Highness, may I present Ellie Banks and Samantha Stevens. Miss Banks works in our Political Affairs Division, and we’re borrowing Miss Stevens from the Department of Homeland Security. Keep an eye on Miss Banks, because she’ll have my job in fifteen years if I’m not careful.”

Prince Jamie stuck his hand out. I shook it. Then he offered his hand to Sam, who was clearly thinking about curtseying, but didn’t.

“Lovely to meet you. Thank you for that inspiring reminder of our mutual goals,” Sam said, summoning all the decorum she had.

“Thank you, and I assure you,” he said, turning back to me, “the pleasure is all mine.”

The Ambassador began to steer the prince towards some of our other colleagues, and Sam grabbed my arm, squealing.

“I am never washing my hand again. Oh. My. God. I’m calling my mom.”


	3. Anything Could Happen

I live in a fairly expensive part of London. And by fairly expensive, I mean I wouldn’t be able to afford to live here except for my cost-of-living benefits, subsidized housing, and the fact that my boss decreed that I live within walking distance of the Embassy, so I can make it in in case of transit strikes, awful traffic, emergencies, etc.

My neighborhood is quite well to do, but I live on a slightly out of the way alley that isn’t as gentrified as the rest of the area. My flat is tiny compared to everything else in the neighborhood, but it’s plenty big enough for me and my dog, and I love it. I’m two very twisty blocks away from Hyde Park, and I begin every day with a run through the Park with Rigby. Yes, my name is Eleanor and I named my dog Rigby. I thought it was a good idea a year ago when I adopted him.

I was super athletic in high school and college— I ran cross-country and played soccer. I ran the Boston Marathon twice while I was attending Tufts. I kept running while I was in Mongolia with the Peace Corps, but I slacked off when I moved to London. My schedule was crazy and work was stressful and I didn’t think I had time. However, once I realized one reason I felt so crappy was because I wasn’t exercising as much as I should, I put on my sneakers and I ran. I’m training for the London Marathon next year.

I run with my dog every morning. Then I go home, eat a super-healthy breakfast, and then, in forty minutes flat (I have it almost down to the second), I shower, get dressed, do something professional with my hair and makeup, throw some coffee in a travel mug, grab a trench coat and an umbrella because it’s London and it _will_ rain, pick up my briefcase and walk out the door. I’m at my desk before 7:45 most mornings.

Most nights after work I have a function of some kind, which is a necessary evil of life as a diplomat. It’s a business based on mutual backscratching, where it’s important to have friends everywhere—and to make sure they are in a perpetual state of owing you a favor. You never want to find yourself thinking, “this trade negotiation would be going much smoother if I had complimented that Swede on his tie at that gallery opening two years ago.”

When I have an event, I scurry home to walk Rigby (I pay a few pounds per walk to a nice girl who lives around the corner from me and takes him for a quick walk when she comes home from school, so I don’t completely neglect him during the day). Then I drop off my briefcase, possibly change into slightly more festive attire, depending on the event, and maybe do something slightly different with my hair or makeup. Then off again, drink a lot, possibly meet a guy worth going on a few dates with but most likely not, try to get home by eleven, pass out, wake up at 5:30 the next morning and do it all again. It’s a thrilling existence.

Weekends tend to be fairly event-free, mostly because diplomats, unlike everyone else, seem to like to get drunk during the week rather than on the weekends. So weekends are dedicated to grocery shopping, cleaning, and prepping for the week ahead.

However, as the neighborhood was built for people who pay other people to do all the boring stuff for them, and I am one of the few in my neighborhood without household staff, my commute to the grocery store is actually longer than my commute to work.

Despite the havoc it wreaks on my schedule and my life in general, I love grocery shopping. I especially love grocery shopping in foreign countries. What is considered normal, everyday food can vary so much from culture to culture. Food is an incredibly important part of diplomacy. It’s also delicious.

Predictably, Waitrose was packed on Saturday morning. This particular Saturday seemed even worse than usual. With my list in hand, I made my way through the aisles, stocking up for the coming week. I like to bring my lunch to work rather than going out (savings!), so I tend to make big batches of a few different meals, and break them into lunch-sized portions. This week, I had a hankering for Italian, and I was planning on lasagna. So there I was at Waitrose, trying to decide if I was extravagant enough to go with fresh mozzarella over the pre-sliced, when my phone rang.

Pushing my cart a little further down the aisle, I pulled my phone out of its usual spot in the back left pocket of my jeans. Caller ID said blocked number, which is fairly standard operating procedure in my business. Staring down the mozzarella, I answered.

“Hello?” I said, noticing that shredded mozzarella was two for three pounds. Score! I grabbed two packages and dropped them into my cart.

“Hello. Is this Eleanor Banks?” His voice was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Absolutely textbook perfect high-class posh accent though.

I replied that yes, this was Eleanor Banks and, as one does, I asked to whom was I speaking?

He replied that while most people were remarkably formal when greeting him, I should feel free to call him Jamie, and while he had my attention, would I like to go to dinner sometime in the coming week?

I tried to stop myself, I really did, but I burst out laughing and nearly knocked over a very nice wine display, which would have been a real tragedy, as I really don’t like to waste perfectly good wine. I recovered my composure enough to reply.

“I don’t know who you are or how much she paid you, but you can tell Sam that she very nearly pulled it off.” I said, chuckling.

“What?” came the seemingly bewildered response.

“Your accent is spot-on. Are you one of her friends from Number 10?”

“No. Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just asked you to dinner.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll call Sam myself.”

“No, wait—“

I hung up and chuckled. Sam was a prankster, but this was different, even for her. I chose three bottles of wine from the display I nearly knocked over as I called Sam. The phone rang twice and she picked up.

“Well played Sam!” I said, making my way to the pasta section. “I don’t know who he was, but he was convincing.”

She claimed to have no idea what I was talking about, which I thought was taking the joke a little too far. It was good, but it was over— time to give it up and have a laugh about it.

“No, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” She protested.

“The Jamie impersonator? Really? That was organized by someone other than you?”

She apparently really had no idea what I was talking about, so I told her.

“Has it occurred to you that it might have really been him?”

That was ridiculous, and I told her so.

“I told you he needed a feisty redhead!” She exclaimed, sounding a little too pleased with herself.

“I am not feisty!” I snapped.

That was definitely not really Prince Jamie that called me to ask me out, I told myself. No. Fucking. Way. The son of the Prince of Wales definitely didn’t ask me out. That’s just ridiculous. And how would he get my number, anyway?

Three hours later, when I was home and assembling lasagna, I got another call. This one was also from a blocked number. I answered it, not entirely sure whether I wanted to hear his voice on the other end again. But it was definitely him. I paused my one-woman lasagna assembly line, and devoted my attention to the conversation, barely able to resist my sudden and incredibly strong urge to just bang my head violently against the kitchen wall.

“Eleanor?” he asked, surprisingly timidly.

“Ellie, please. Yes, it’s me. Look, I just want to apologize for the way I reacted earlier.” I sat down on my living room floor, and Rigby, big ball of brown and white fluff that he is, climbed into my lap. I scratched his ears, seeking reassurance from the unwavering love of the man in my life, my beautiful collie-shepherd mutt.

A chuckle wafted from Jamie, on the other end of the phone line. “You are forgiven. I know it was unexpected.”

“How did you get my number?” Rigby licked my hand, which smelled of tomatoes and cheese and meat.

“I have friends in high places.”

“Of course you do.”

“And my offer to take you out to dinner still stands.”

“Sure.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant. How about next Thursday? Can I pick you up at seven?”

I quickly consulted my mental calendar and decided that I could bow out of next Thursday’s wine and cheese reception at the French Embassy— those things were insufferable. “Yes, Thursday would be good. I’ll give you my address.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“Really?”

“I got your number, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did.”

“So seven on Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then.”

I dropped my phone on the coffee table and ran my hands through my hair. What did I just agree to? I washed the dog saliva off my hands and went back to my lasagna feeling somewhat numb. I had just accepted a prince’s offer to go on a date. I was going to dinner with the most eligible bachelor in Britain, certainly, possibly in the world.

I had no idea what to think. Why me? I was so not his type. I’m not posh, I’m not rich, no one in my family has a title or has ever appeared on the Tatler list; I’m an American commoner, and a political one at that. This is so wrong in so many ways.

Why did I even say yes? We’ve been through the fact that he’s attractive, but that was a really shallow reason to say yes to a date. I didn’t want to believe that that was the reason I had accepted. But we had nothing in common. He’s a bloody _prince_. We’d go on one date, and I’d be swarmed by paparazzi for months. I’d be all over the tabloids, which is practically my worst nightmare.

It’s clear that man isn’t exactly consistent, or even stable. Even if I was genuinely interested in pursuing a relationship with him, which, for the record I was not, there is absolutely no way that such a relationship would work. We’re so completely different. He doesn’t have a serious bone in his body. I monitor the political climate in Britain for a living. I probably know more about his country’s government than he does. He’s a serial casual dater, and he’s covered the usual: models, actresses, singers, aristocracy, daughters of tycoons. How on earth did I fit into his world?

And what the hell does one wear on a date with a prince? No doubt he’ll show up wearing a suit more expensive than my monthly grocery bill. While I don’t expect him to demand to see my retail receipts, there is, quite frankly, an expectation for how I will look. And that expectation is: expensive. Not gaudy, but expensive.

I was regretting it already. _I should call him back and say something’s come up. He might try to re-schedule, in which case I’ll say I can’t go out with him until I solve this international crisis that is so crucial it isn’t in the press. Right. That will work. Besides_ —the realization hit me and my stomach dropped to the floor— _I don’t have his number. I couldn’t call him back even if I wanted to. And it’s not like I can ring Clarence House and ask to speak to him._

The full importance of what I had just agreed to was beginning to hit me, and it was terrifying. But I don’t back down from a challenge, and I certainly don’t break promises. I was going to do this. I was going to go on a date with a prince. It may have been a terrible decision, but it was a decision, and I made it. I was going to use every diplomatic skill I had up my sleeve. I would be charming but enigmatic, I would kill it at small talk, and I would leave him wanting more. And then I would leave.

And that would be it. One date, and an awesome story to tell Sam, and everyone at every party I go to, until I actually met someone I could realistically marry. While it seems that the fantasy of every girl in the world is to marry the handsome, charming prince, live in Kensington Palace, and shop on the Queen’s budget, that was certainly not my fantasy. I didn’t want to dress in ladylike skirtsuits and pumps and whacko fascinators for the rest of my life. I didn’t want the world staring at me, judging my clothes, my body, my relationship, and my work. I’d also heard that tiaras are really heavy and give you cramps in your neck. Whoever married Prince Jamie would be photographed dozens—if not hundreds—of times a day for the rest of her life, and the tabloids would always be wondering loudly if he was cheating on her. She wouldn’t be able to win. Thankfully, that will be someone else. I would have one date with him, and then I’d have a story to tell. That became my mantra for the next few days, leading up to the Big Day.

“You do realize how incredibly manipulative that is, right?” That was Ashley’s reaction when I told her.

If Sam Stevens was my best friend in London, Ashley Bennett was my best friend anywhere, any time. It was kind of an unlikely friendship. Pale, redheaded Navy brat, and black girl who was raised by a single mom on the wrong side of the Bronx. However, we sat next to each other in a global poverty and human rights seminar freshman year at Tufts, and a friendship of truly epic proportions was born. She is now a middle school English teacher in Baltimore, and I miss her like mad.

“Quite frankly, I’m sure one of the reasons he’s interested in you is because of how normal you are. He’s used to being used for his position, and here you are, normal, unpretentious American girl going out with him so you have a story to tell at parties. He thinks you’re his dream girl, but you’re actually his worst nightmare.”

That wasn’t exactly how I would have phrased it, but I knew she was right, even though I protested. But wasn’t going out with me because of my normalcy as bad as me going out with him because he was a prince? I’m not the kind of person to date around. While it wasn’t my highest priority at the moment, I did want to get married and “settle down” within the next five or ten years. I really don’t see the point in wasting time getting invested in a relationship that I knew didn’t have long-term potential. So why was I wasting time I going out with a prince, when I only planned to go on one date with him?

But I had a bigger problem: what was I going to wear? Over the course of the next few days, I went through every possible outfit in my closet, and found a reason to reject every single possibility. Too casual, too businesslike, too American, trying too hard to be British. When I got ready for work on Thursday morning, I still had no idea what I was going to wear to dinner that night.

When Sam walked by my desk on her way to her lunch break, I had been staring at the same page in a briefing packet for nearly forty-five minutes. She snapped her fingers at me. I jumped almost a foot in the air.

This was so unlike me. I’m focused. I’m organized. I’m unflappable. I am professional to my core. And I let this stupid date I agreed to distract me from my job. Something was clouding my judgment.

I muddled my way through the day, and drifted home, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten. Forget all the other stuff—I didn’t know how I would be able to eat anything at dinner with this pit in my stomach.

Rigby could tell something was wrong when I walked him. He usually likes to walk ahead of me, sniffing things and usually peeing on them, put that evening, he protectively stuck right by my side.

When we got back from our walk, I went upstairs to look through my closet to make my final decision about what to wear. Because of my fairly vibrant red hair, most shades of red and pink are out of the question for me, and orange is pretty risky too, so my wardrobe consists mostly of blue, green, purple, some yellow, and neutrals. I pawed through the dresses in my closet, finding something wrong about every one. That one is too sparkly. That one too low cut. That one too _high_ cut. I wore that one to work last week, so that’s a no.

I eventually settled on a sapphire blue dress with cap sleeves, boat neckline, and, although it had an empire waist, was cut narrow through the torso, and more or less flared out, A-line, at the hips, with the hem hitting just below my knee. I pulled on some nude-colored tights and my favorite pair of (comfy) black pumps. I let down my hair, which had been in a bun all day, so it was more wavy than usual, and I pinned it half up, half down. I decided to keep my pearl stud earrings from the day, and I was touching up my makeup when the doorbell rang.

I rushed downstairs. I was enough of a diplomat to know that one does not keep a member of the royal family waiting outside your door.

I opened my front door, and there he was. Prince Jamie stood on the welcome mat on my front step, this time wearing a blue suit with a red tie, and I couldn’t help but notice the color-coordinated pocket square. I also noted the stern gentleman standing a few feet away in a dark suit, looking on critically. Jamie was holding a lovely bouquet of flowers, which he held out to me.

“Hello,” he said. “These are for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied, taking them. “I’ll just find a vase for them, if that’s alright. Would you like to come in?”

He looked over his shoulder at the bodyguard, who pursed his lips. He turned back to me apologetically.

“As much as I would like to, I’m afraid that would require a full security sweep of your lovely home, to which I would rather not subject you.”

I tried to laugh it off with a chuckle. Right. Security.

“Right, then. I’ll do this super quick, I promise.”

I dashed off to the kitchen, threw open my cabinets, looking for the first vase I could find. One does not keep one’s date waiting, especially when he’s third in line for the throne. I grabbed a blue glass vase and hurriedly filled it with water. I stuck the bouquet in, leaving the vase on the kitchen counter, and rushed back to the front door, grabbing my purse and a jacket on the way.

The whole thing took all of maybe a minute, but that was enough. I was caught completely off guard by what I saw when I returned. Jamie was no longer standing just outside my front door. No, he was crouching, and petting my dog.

When he saw me, Jamie stood up quite quickly, and for some reason apologized.

“He came down the stairs and came to look me over,” he said.

“Yes, he’s very protective.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rigby.”

“That’s a good name for a good dog.” Jamie bent down to scratch Rigby’s ears again. Then he slowly realized. “Oh, I understand. You’re Eleanor, and he’s Rigby. That’s clever.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

I gave Rigby a reassuring pat and stepped out of my house, closing and locking the door behind me.

Jamie held his arm out, indicating that I should take the lead to the car, a black Audi.

The bodyguard was holding the door open for me, and I slid in as gracefully as I could. Jamie went around to the other side of the car and slid in next to me. The bodyguard took his seat up front, next to the driver, and we departed.

Once we were on our way, Jamie dove right in.

“I’m really sorry to start our evening with such boring, yet incredibly awkward matters.” He began. “I just thought you might have some questions about how this will work. The restaurant we’re going to knows we’re coming, and they are very professional and very discreet. You can be assured that there will be no photographers, no paparazzi, no media of any kind. Also, Ben, my driver, and Gavin, my security, are obviously sworn to secrecy, so this car is a safe, leak-free zone.”

I nodded, which seemed to put him slightly more at ease.

“Do you start all your dates this way? I bet that talk really gets the girls going.”

He sighed. “Well, to be honest, many of my dates are at nightclubs, where the trajectory of the evening and the expectations of privacy are slightly different.”

Despite being the one to bring it up, I really, really didn’t want to talk about all the other girls he’s dated, but I didn’t know what else to talk about. And I was beginning to think he didn’t either. Remind me again why I agreed to this?

“Your dog seems very sweet.” Jamie offered. I was incredibly grateful he’d changed the subject.

I nodded again. “Yes. I adopted him right after I moved here last year, which really helped me adjust.”

“It must be difficult to be so far from home, but I suppose it’s easier to be in London than in Ulan Bator.”

“Pardon?” I definitely hadn’t told him about Mongolia.

“Your time in the Peace Corps.”

The knot in my stomach tightened. “I never told you about the Peace Corps.”

He smiled. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to pass this off as a joke or if I should perceive this as somehow sinister.

“You know all about me and my family, so I thought it only fair I found out a little about you. You’ve had an interesting life so far. It made for a fascinating read.”

I was indignant, and desperately trying not to show too much of it. “You could have asked, you know.”

“And have you ask me whether I have siblings when you already know the answer? No thank you.”

This was not getting off to a very good start, and I said so. He chuckled.

“I didn’t want to come into this with an imbalance of information. There’s so much about me and my family in the press, and I didn’t want to just pester you with questions about your family all night, so I talked to some friends in MI6.”

“How do you know I actually read what is said about you in the press?”

“Everyone does.”

“Not everyone. I certainly know your reputation, but quite frankly, I’m more interested in Parliament and Number 10 than Buckingham Palace and Clarence House.”

He denies it to this day, but I’m sure that I heard a snicker from Gavin the bodyguard.

It was then that we pulled up to the restaurant. Gavin got out and opened my door for me, and I tried to slide out as gracefully as I had slid in. Getting out is noticeably harder. Jamie came around to my side and guided me into the restaurant. We were led to a table in a remote corner. It was a nice place, of course. Dark hardwood and crisp white table linens and perfectly aligned table settings. There were other tables near ours, but they were conspicuously unoccupied.

Our conversation didn’t have a chance to start up again until we had settled in with our menus and ordered the first of what was sure to be many rounds of drinks.

“So what is it you actually do at the Embassy?” He asked, looking up from his menu.

“Oh, your background check didn’t include interviewing my boss?”

He laughed. He was even more attractive when he did that, and I was relieved that I was relaxing a little bit, but at the same time, a new sort of tension was growing, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it.

“Touché,” he said. “It seems like you really love your job, so I figured I wouldn’t steal that thunder.”

“I do love my job. I’m in the Political Affairs Division. I monitor the political climate here, read your legislation, determine how it affects American legislation, and evaluate whether similar ideas would work for us. It’s a lot of paperwork, mostly.”

He nodded, and looked back down at his menu. I perused mine. Now, I’m not exactly a stranger to gourmet cooking— unless you have a potentially fatal food allergy, diplomats have to be ready and able to eat anything in front of them so as to avoid setting off international incidents, so I have eaten some very strange things. However, as much as I am trained to consume whatever is on my plate and as much as I just like food, making an actual choice is so much more terrifying than just having something put in front of you and knowing you had better eat it, even if you had absolutely no idea what it was.

I was concentrating so hard on choosing what to order that it took me a while to notice that Jamie had put down his menu and was basically staring at me. I stared back.

“Why did you agree to this?” He asked.

I shrugged, and took a sip from my water glass. “I don’t know. Why did you ask me out?”

He leaned his head slightly to the side, and the tiniest half-smile crept onto his face. “I don’t know. You seem like an interesting person.”

At this point, our waiter came back, and our conversation was interrupted again.

“You didn’t seem so shy last week.” He said, breaking the awkward silence the waiter had left in his wake.

“I just take a while to warm up to new people.”

“I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Not at all. This is just very different from what I’m used to. I don’t really go out with princes very often.”

He tried very hard not to roll his eyes, and leaned forward.

“Please don’t take this personally, because absolutely everyone, including my own family does it, but I sometimes wish I had a little sign on my forehead indicating when I’m ‘prince’ mode and when I’m just in ‘Jamie’ mode. I have a public side, and a private side, which seems to be a very difficult concept for people to understand.”

I chuckled, and took another sip of water. “Which side am I seeing now?”

“Private. I’m not shaking your hand, asking how far you had to come to see me, and telling you I hoped you hadn’t been waiting long.”

“It’s that thrilling?”

“My job when I do public appearances is to let people know I appreciate them and to make them feel special and important. I’m not denying it’s tedious, but I like knowing that I’ve made someone feel special by shaking their hand.”

“This is the American in me, but why should we care? Why does your genealogy make your family so special?”

“It may surprise you to know that I ask myself that question every single day. But I’ve realized that it doesn’t really matter. I am able to make a difference in people’s lives because of who I am, and I can bring attention to causes that are important to me. It’s a gift and a burden, and I try to make the most of the opportunities I have.”

“Forgive me, but really? Constant clubbing and partying and God knows what else is improving the world?

He shook his head ruefully. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

Now we were getting somewhere interesting, even though I could tell the topic was beginning to make him uncomfortable.

It was precisely at this moment that our waiter returned, bringing the first course. Jamie started with scallops, while I went for the crab risotto. Growing up on Navy bases gives you a real taste for seafood.

After we had taken our first few bites, we started back in on the Inquisition.

“So,” I began, “how much of what’s written about you in the papers is actually true?”

He looked up, fork poised just above a scallop. “I have no idea.” He stabbed it and ate it.

Oh, come on. “What do you mean?” I pried.

He looked back down at his plate and squirmed. “I don’t read the papers,” he replied quietly.

I had a hard time believing it.

I knew it was rude and he probably hated me by now, but I had to keep going. “You have no idea what’s being said about you?”

He looked me straight in the eyes, which for some reason made me feel very small. “I only read news about me if I happen across it accidentally or if they say something horrid that needs damage control.” And then he went back to his scallops.

And I kept going. “You’re not curious?”

He set his fork down and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

“I’m much more interested in living my life than in reading what other people have to say about it.”

Now that he had out-diplomatted the diplomat, he returned to eating. I took a rather large swig of my wine.

“Touché,” I replied.

He chuckled, and some of the knot in my stomach relaxed a tiny bit. He looked me straight in the eyes again, except this time, his expression wasn’t dripping with condescension.

“No, look, “ he said. “I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that people have a certain impression of who I am and how I act. Whether it is true or not doesn’t really matter, because that is what people will believe.”

I was getting genuinely interested. “And you don’t want to counter that image? Let people see the real you?”

“There is no real me. And it’s not about people seeing the real me. What if the real me is incredibly boring? People only want the real version of someone when it fits an archetype. It’s about creating a version of myself that is presented to the public. You’d be surprised how different some of my relations are behind closed doors- - particularly how many of my family absolutely detest those bloody dogs my Granny insists on keeping about.”

So help me, I giggled. “Does the queen sit around swilling gin and tonics and talking in a Cockney accent? That’s what Saturday Night Live thinks she does, and I really want it to be true.”

I caught him mid-sip, but once he had recovered from nearly spitting his drink across the room, he replied.

“That information is classified, but I can tell you that she hates the Prime Minister.”

I nodded, thinking of the PM’s Embassy codename, which must never, ever be revealed to outsiders.

“She and the Ambassador have that in common.”

“She and the Ambassador and most of Britain have that in common.”

“True, but he’s so wonderful to watch during PMQs. Not wonderful, I mean, but there’s such an air of Shakespearian tragedy about it, but with much worse grammar. It’s like a car wreck, I can’t tear myself away.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Well I’m sorry for making you miss it last week.”

“What?”

“At the Embassy last week, you said you were missing Question Time for the reception.”

The knot was retying itself in my stomach. “No I didn’t.”

The smile on his face said that he knew he had caught me.

“Oh come on, I heard you. You said it to your friend, the one with the awful poker face.”

Yeah. That would be Sam.

“Okay, I said it, but you weren’t supposed to hear it.”

“That’s a classic politician excuse. But one good thing about being royal: when you’ve done as many walkabouts as I have, you become really good at picking conversations out of crowds, especially when you’re paying as much attention to someone as I was paying to you.”

Okay, whoa. That was a bombshell. I fought very hard to keep my jaw from dropping, and tried to play it off with a joke.

“So is that how you get dates? Picking girls out of the hordes of your adoring fans?”

Chuckling, he replied, “Usually, they don’t ignore me as completely as you did.”

“I bet they’re absolutely tripping over themselves to get to you.”

“Most are, yes, but that is exactly why I don’t date them.”

He then went on to saying something about how a few girls he had dated later leaked details to the press, and since then, he’s been much more cautious.

Looking back on it now, the rest of that dinner has kind of blended into a blur, kind of like that part in a romantic comedy where you see the couple getting to know each other, frolicking on beaches and through meadows and the like— usually right before they have that huge fight or misunderstanding that causes the female lead to cry into her Ben & Jerry’s, and the male lead to go out and punch things because he can’t verbally express his feelings. But then they make up, with dramatic background music, and the conflict is resolved in a way that makes you believe they’ll never disagree again.

Real life montage moments happen because of expensive food, low lighting, and liberal amounts of alcohol.

However, one thing that I will remember with crystal clarity for the rest of my life is the raspberry soufflé I had for dessert, because that was the food of the gods.

It seems like a cop-out to say this, but the next thing I knew, we were back in the car, heading back to my flat. The ride was silent. In the front seat, Gavin and Ben both stared straight ahead, clearly trying to give us the impression that they were not eavesdropping at all. They were trying a little too hard.

Jamie was staring out the window. Because it was London, it was drizzling, and the there was a thick layer of fog. The car windows were misty, and the windshield wipers squeaked quietly as they glided back and forth.

We approached my flat. I don’t actually live on a street, but on a courtyard/mews kind of arrangement. Ben pulled the car up to the sidewalk near the alley, and Gavin got out and opened my door for me. He left His Royal Highness to fend for himself.

Jamie and I approached my door side-by-side, with Gavin trailing behind, making sure no one assassinated us. I was concentrating on not losing my footing on the slick cobblestones. I could also feel my naturally wavy hair transforming from nice, manageable, admittedly sexy loose curls to full-on frizz.

I dug my keys out of my purse, and said thank you to Jamie. I told him I had a lovely evening, which was the truth. We had had a truly interesting and enlightening conversation, which I would remember next time I saw his drunk face on the cover of a tabloid decrying his wild behavior.

“I’m on duty in Portsmouth for the next few weeks, but I have a charity visit in London next Friday. Would you like to go to dinner again that night?”

Seriously? This was supposed to be a one-time thing.

“Are you asking out of courtesy, or do you genuinely want to see me again?”

“Would I ask with that degree of specificity if it was just a kind gesture?”

“Why are you answering my questions with questions?”

“Well why are you answering mine with questions?”

We paused for a chuckle. I was holding my purse in one hand and my keys in the other, and I’m pretty sure that if I had a free hand, he would have been holding it.

“Look, I don’t want to pester you or overwhelm you, and if you never want to see me again, please say so, but if you really did have a nice time tonight, would you like to go to dinner again?”

I sighed. “Oh sure, why not?”

“Another question? Really?”

“It’s a good deflection tactic, isn’t it?”

“Are you ever going to stop?”

I was beginning to wonder how long we could keep this going. I was hoping the answer was “a while longer.”

“Are you?”

“May I touch your hair?”

Well that escalated quickly. “Why? I’m not a gnome you can rub for good luck.”

“I know that. I’m just having difficulty believing that hair that red is real.”

I recoiled. “Well I will have you know that my hair is real, as is every other part of me.”

He snickered. “It’s hardly ladylike to volunteer such information.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Because ladylike behavior is the first quality you look for.”

“You have no idea what I’m looking for.” Sensing that I was about to interject something about the tabloids, he pre-empted me. “And for the love of God, don’t mention the press.”

I tried to hold in the chortle, but it came out anyway.

“Goodnight, Ellie.” He said.

“Goodnight, Your Royal Highness.”

Clearly he didn’t get that that was an attempt at a deadpan joke.

“Oh, please, God, no. I’m Jamie to you. And before I go…” He reached out and ran his hand over my hair.

And then I was kissed by a prince.

It was short and sweet and utterly textbook— enjoyable, yes, but not nearly what I expected a kiss with him to be like.

He slipped a piece of paper into my hand.

“I got yours in a less-than-honest way, so here’s mine. No aides, no security, just directly to me, unless I don’t want to talk to you, in which case you’ll get my voicemail. But to be honest, I don’t think that will ever happen.”

“Thank you.”

“So next Friday? Is seven a good time?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Ellie.”

“Goodnight, Jamie.”

“That’s better.”

He turned and walked back to where the car was waiting. Gavin nodded to me and followed him. I waved, and then they were gone.

I unlocked my front door. Rigby was just inside, eagerly jumping up and down, fluffy brown tail wagging. I bent down and scratched his furry back, and he licked my hand.

Rigby followed me upstairs, where I got ready for bed. Once I had changed, washed my face and brushed my teeth, I belly-flopped into bed. I lay there motionless for a few seconds, and Rigby jumped up next to me and curled into his customary position at the foot of the bed. 

I stared at the wall. Oh God. I liked him. What the hell was I supposed to do now?


	4. Warning Sign

Despite what appeared to be a clean getaway, a few short gossip articles about the date managed to get published. The preferred narrative was fairly straightforward: Prince Jamie was seen dining with a mysterious redhead, but when nothing else happened over the next few days, the story seemed to fade away. I did, however, get a call two days after the date from Freddie Baxter, Jamie’s private secretary, apologizing for the press, saying that it was probably either another diner or a restaurant member of staff who leaked the story to the press, and that next time they would be more thorough.

Life was actually surprisingly normal. No one at work knew I was dating a prince, or even had any reason to think anything in my life was out of the ordinary, so work went on without any awkward questions or stares. The only person I had told about the date was Ashley, and she was 3600 miles away.

After a fairly stressful day on Tuesday, monitoring budget negotiations in Parliament while getting live updates from a friend in Washington on a trade agreement being debated in the Senate, Sam and I went out for drinks with some colleagues. There were six or seven of us, and we ended up at a pub not far from the Embassy. As usual, when half a dozen twenty-and thirty-somethings with super-stressful jobs get together and drink alcohol, the conversation inevitably turned to dating.

Sam is a serial dater. She’ll go on a few dates with a guy— just enough that they both start to think that they might have some potential as a couple, but then she’ll find some reason to break it off. She says that variety is the spice of life, and if that makes her happy, I’m happy for her. That’s not my style, though. I’m the sort of person that thinks long-term and likes consistency— probably because I’ve never had any.

Sam was entertaining us with the story of a date she went on last week, and what a disaster it was. Apparently the guy kept calling her Sarah. She later discovered that Sarah was his ex-girlfriend. They had broken up two days earlier… which was three days  _ after _ he asked Sam out.

After finishing her story, Sam turned to me.

“El, you haven’t been seeing anyone lately, have you?”

My heart beat faster, and I was pretty sure my incredibly pale cheeks were flushing. “No, not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing serious.”

Sam’s eyes widened. I had just provoked the Gossip Beast. This was not good.

“What do you mean,  _ not serious _ ? You don’t do  _ not serious _ . Come on, tell us about it!”

I shrugged.  _ Play it casual, play it casual! _ “I went out with this guy last week, but it was only one date, we’re not really each other’s type, and I don’t know if it will work out.”

Everyone started chiming in, asking how we met and who he was and where he worked and where we had gone and if we were going out again.

“Yikes, people, I just don’t want to jinx it.”

Sam winked at me. “Just let me know how it goes, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You promise?”

“Yes!”

The remaining days until Friday were insufferable. Against my better judgment, I was actually looking forward to seeing Jamie again. He certainly was an interesting conversation partner, if nothing else.

On Thursday night, he called me, which, I have to admit, surprised me. He told me he had just gotten into London from Portsmouth, and he wanted to talk to me and make sure we were still on for the following evening.

“Of course,” I said. “But may I make a request?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Anything you want.”

“I know it’s difficult because of… you know… and I don’t know what you had planned for tomorrow night anyway, but could we possibly do something slightly more interesting than just dinner?”

“Of course,” he said again. “In that case, could I pick you up a little earlier? Around five, maybe?”

“That’s great. See you tomorrow.”

“I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.”

_ Thud _ went my stomach. “I don’t think one can measure these things, but I think I probably am.”

“Excellent. See you tomorrow. Goodnight Ellie.”

“Goodnight Jamie.”

I had absolutely no idea what to expect, and I was incredibly jumpy all day at work on Friday. I was refreshing the BBC website homepage during my lunch break when a story about Jamie’s charity visit popped up. Curious, I clicked on it. Apparently the big story was not the cancer ward he visited, but that he told a nice lady who asked him that “there might be” a special lady in his life. Of course the media picked up on this and ran with it, and they dredged up last week’s report about him dining with a mystery redhead and concluded that he had a secret girlfriend. Terrific. How on earth were we going to do anything remotely interesting tonight, when the press suddenly had this idea he’s hiding a girlfriend and the paparazzi would be after him like a pack of wolves?

He was knocking at my door at five o’clock sharp, and this time accepted my offer to come in. No security sweep. Once again, he presented me with a lovely bouquet.

“Keeping the U.K. floral industry in business I see,” I remarked as I filled a vase.

Jamie was crouching on the living room floor with Rigby, who was lying on his back, legs up in the air, tongue hanging out, loving the attention. “Actually, those came from the garden at Clarence House.”

“Oh. That’s lovely.”

“Listen,” he said, turning to face me but still scratching my dog’s belly, “I don’t know if you saw the news today, but I said something rather stupid.”

I nodded. “I saw it.”

“I’m sorry if you felt it was too soon for something like that. I think it’s too early to say if you and I have something that will last long-term, because this is only our second date, but I also didn’t want to lie and say I wasn’t seeing anyone, because I am. I want to get to know you better, but I also realize that I’m not easy to date.”

I sighed. “Well, it didn’t end up on the news, but I had a similar thing with my friends at the pub last week. I just told them it was too early and I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“Well, I’d say so far, so good on the public relations part, although I’m sorry that there are gossip columnists already planning our wedding. Now I’ve taken a few precautionary measures tonight, because I know there will be some additional interest in my activities after what I said today.”

“What kinds of precautionary measures?”

He grinned. “Oh, just a decoy here, a false tip there, persuading my brother to go out tonight as well, hoping he’ll overshadow us.”

Jamie is actually the youngest of three. His elder brother, Richard, is currently second in line to the throne after their father, Prince George, the Prince of Wales. Then there’s Princess Alice, who is the middle child, but, due to succession laws, is actually after her younger brother, Jamie, in line to the throne. The succession laws were changed after Richard got married two years ago, but were not made retroactive, so Alice is still fourth behind her little brother.

It’s actually hard to say who gets more attention: Richard, as the young, increasingly less handsome future king with the glamorous wife (who tends to wear clothes that are at least a size too small), or Jamie, as the still-single “spare” with the reputation as a partier. When Richard married his longtime sweetheart Liz Pembroke two years ago (she had been nicknamed “Lazy Lizzie” because after meeting Richard at Cambridge, she “worked for her uncle” for eight years, but during that period was only seen entering his company’s office twice, allegedly just waiting around for the proposal), the attention on them reached fever pitch. In the time since, especially with no baby yet, the fever has somewhat subsided to a dull roar. Although as soon as she’s spotted with water instead of alcohol or holds her hands in front of her stomach, the pregnancy rumors start up again, and she’s plastered all over the place.

And that’s just the baggage from the siblings. Don’t even get me started on the baggage from his parents’ circus of a marriage. No wonder the poor man is so traumatized he can’t keep a girlfriend.

We were ready to go, so we went out to the car. Rigby was very disappointed to be left behind, but I gave him a handful of treats as I left, so he was slightly mollified.

As we walked to the waiting car, I felt Jamie gently place his hand on my back as if guiding me. It felt instinctive and protective, even though the area was practically deserted.

We got into the car, and Ben pulled away from the curb. The drive was short and quiet. Not ten minutes later, we were pulling into an alley behind a movie theater.

Jamie looked over at me and smiled. “It’s more interesting than just dinner!”

“Not by much!” I retorted.

“Well we could always sit in the back row of the theater and snog like teenagers.”

“You’re very forward tonight.”

He chuckled and offered me his hand. I was somewhat surprised, but I took it.

“We’ll go in the back door, and slide into the theater after the lights have gone down. I know the manager, and he’s taken care of tickets and sweets for us.”

“The amount of planning that goes into you just leaving the house is incredible.”

“Yes, well, this is normal for me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have nothing to compare it to, so I have no idea what I’m missing.”

We saw some American political drama-slash-thriller. There were southern accents and guns and suits and backroom deals and backstabbing, some of it literal. I do like a certain amount of suspense in my fiction, so I could get into it. I did keep a mental tally on all the inaccuracies in the fictional presidential administration, though. That is totally not how the relationship between DoD and State works.

I was sitting to Jamie’s left, and we had a bag of popcorn between us, and several times, so help me, that cheesy middle school date thing happened, where your hand accidentally brushes up against your date’s hand when you go in for the popcorn. You giggle and blush and whisper an apology, and then it happens again fifteen minutes later and eventually you give up and just hold each other’s buttery hands and squeeze when it gets scary.

Clearly we were feeling a lot more comfortable with each other than we were last week. Despite this breakthrough, I was still absolutely floored by the question Jamie asked as we snuck around the corner from the theater to the restaurant.

“I know this is incredibly forward of me and it’s really, really early, but I would love to introduce you to my sister. I know that seeing me, especially if we keep seeing each other, can put you in an isolated position, and, first of all, I think the two of you would get along splendidly, and I also think she could be an ally for you.”

So yeah, my jaw nearly hit the floor. This was moving way faster than I thought it would, and, all of a sudden, way faster than I was comfortable with. I took a few moments to compose myself.

“You’re right, it is really early to be thinking about meeting each other’s families. Can we maybe slow down and talk about what’s going on between you and me before we start involving other people?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself.”

We had arrived at the restaurant, and we snuck in through the back door. This one was notably more relaxed than the one we went to last time, and I felt much more at ease.

Once we were led to a table, we settled in and continued our conversation. In theory, I liked the idea of meeting Princess Alice. Of the three children of the Prince of Wales, she was definitely the one with the lowest profile, and seemed really nice from the media coverage of her. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to meet any date’s family after the second date, especially when the date in question is a prince and his sister is a princess.

I felt really uncertain about a lot of things, and I don’t like uncertainty. Yes, I had to admit that I was realizing how much I was beginning to like Jamie. If he were anyone else, I would keep dating him without a second thought. However, he wasn’t anyone else, he was Prince Jamie, and I had to be realistic about this.

Dating him long-term would mean press coverage. A lot of press coverage. I knew we were only on our second date, but a relationship with him that lasted more than about six months would lead to marriage speculation. The second date was way, way too early to ever be thinking about marriage, but when you’re dating someone so incredibly high-profile, that has to be a consideration. There is no such thing as casually dating the most eligible bachelor in the world, especially only two years removed from his brother’s fairytale royal wedding, and when the bachelor in question has been strongly hinting that he wants to settle down.

As much as I found myself liking Jamie, I had a tough decision ahead of me. Did I like him enough to make the sacrifices a relationship with him would require?

“Why me?” I asked him when we were settled. “Did you just see me at the Embassy opening and think ‘a-ha, there’s my next date!’ or what?”

He looked at me with that expression people make when they’re trying not to smile.

“It was more than that. But I want to know more about you before I decide if I want to tell you the whole story.”

“Really? That’s really manipulative.”

He leaned back and took a sip from him water glass. Dammit. He was so… ugh. It would be so much easier to end whatever this was if he stopped being attractive and interesting to talk to.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“I want to know more about you.”

“That’s helpful.”

I leaned forward and placed my arms on the table.

“Should I regale you with the long list of different places I’ve lived?”

“No, I’ve already seen that,” he said, resting his hand on top of mine, his fingers wrapping around the side of my hand. “But I’m sure I’ll muck up the order.”

I raised my eyebrows. He met my gaze straight on, unflinching.

“Born in San Diego. Then moved to New Hampshire. Then Japan. Then Hawaii, New Orleans, California again--Monterey this time, so my dad could attend the Naval Postgraduate School--and then I went to university in Massachusetts, and my parents moved to Maryland.”

“And then you served with the Peace Corps in Mongolia.”

“Yes. Then applied for the Foreign Service, and despite being fluent in Russian and Mandarin, I was posted here.”

“I for one am glad you weren’t posted to Moscow or Beijing.”

“Depending on how this goes, I might be glad, too.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. What made you want to be a diplomat?” He squeezed my hand. I turned my hand slightly so I could squeeze back.

“I love my country, but I also love other countries. I think it’s important to find the best parts of every society and learn from that, and it’s important for people to feel connected, especially when it comes to human rights issues. Voting rights and emerging democracies are my big thing. I studied in Beijing for a year in university, and it really opened my eyes. I believe that I can make the world a better place through my work.”

“We have that in common. The work my family does may seem trivial compared to embassies and summits and things like that, but what we do is diplomacy, and it’s important. Our presence makes people feel like they matter.”

“But why does your presence matter more than mine? I have a lot more in common with the average American than you do with the average British citizen, and I’ve worked and studied to get where I am.”

“In some ways, yes, monarchy and the idea of royalty is incredibly stupid. But what about the Carnegies and the Rockefellers, and even the Roosevelts and the Kennedys?”

“They had tons of money, yes, but they worked for it.”

“Yes, and their descendents—not the people that worked in the factories and the shipyards or wherever—inherited that money and a certain amount of power that comes with that amount of wealth. Well, a long time ago, my ancestors won some wars, declared that God had chosen them, and kept marrying the right people, and have kept the public happy enough that we haven’t been overthrown. With that money and privilege comes the obligation to do good in the world. Unlike rich American families, we have a social contract. We’re accountable to the public. The people trust us to represent them, and we have a responsibility to represent them well. Although I’m glad that the risk of being beheaded if we’re disliked has been drastically reduced over the last few centuries.”

“You may be national symbols, but you’re still human, and you screw up, and there’s no middle ground between ‘keep the guy we don’t trust’ and ‘overthrow the entire institution.’ How do you handle it when an unelected national symbol screws up, and the public don’t trust him? In the U.S., we know that no matter how much we hate or distrust whoever is in power, we know when we’ll be able to vote them out. Right now it works because your grandmother is so beloved, but have you seen what people say about your father?”

He sighed and picked at the tablecloth, and I could tell that he had been hoping I wouldn’t bring this up.

The public perception of Jamie’s father, Prince George, the Prince of Wales, is that he’s a real piece of work, although many people refer to him as a piece of something else entirely— something much less pleasant. Prince George sowed plenty of wild oats in his youth, and the rumors about illegitimate children have never been properly addressed, although they disappeared from the press shockingly quickly without any statement. Because this was pre-internet, they were able to get away from it without any major damage. There was a lot of pressure on Prince George to settle down and get married, and to be perfectly honest, by the time he did, his looks were fading fast. His eventual marriage was one step up from being arranged. He traveled around England visiting dukes and earls and the like, basically auditioning their single, virginal daughters, and eventually settled on Lady Lillian MacClare, daughter of the Marquess of Flintshire.

Prince George, thanks to his position as the heir to the most famous throne in the world and his now-fading good looks, was used to being the center of attention. When the thirty-two year-old Prince of Wales married a gorgeous, glamorous, blushing bride of only eighteen, the press suddenly abandoned him and started following his wife. He couldn’t adjust to it.

They had three adorable kids, Richard, Alice, and James, within the first five years of their marriage, and for a while they were able to play happy family. But then it all fell into soap opera territory. In an age when divorce was no longer taboo and you were no longer expected to just carry on with an unhappy marriage for the sake of appearances, the fourteen-year age difference and the fact that they’d only had four dates before the proposal quickly caught up with them. While they never divorced or even publically acknowledged a separation, it was clear that the marriage was in shambles.

Princess Lillian was diagnosed with thyroid cancer for the first time when Jamie was ten. She seemed to be getting better, but when he was thirteen, it was announced that her cancer was terminal. Prince George only visited her in the hospital twice. Four days before she died, he was photographed in an incredibly compromising position with Lady Serena Shavelle-Atherton-Keane. It was a P.R. disaster.

So you can understand why people aren’t too keen on a man with such terrible judgment and seeming lack of compassion for his own wife being the next King of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth.

“Yes,” Jamie sighed. “I know what people say about my father. Unfortunately, most of it has some basis in truth. He was raised in an era when it was still acceptable for the monarchy to be isolated from everyday people, and he hasn’t adjusted his thinking. Unfortunately, Richard is just like him.”

I rested my free elbow on the table and my chin on my hand, frowning at him. “Should you really be telling me this on our second date? I mean, I could go home and call the Ambassador and report all of this to him.”

“I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said before, even by the Ambassador, who is a good friend of mine. It’s in the tabloids practically every day.”

“I thought you didn’t read the tabloids.”

He chuckled. “I don’t. But I have friends who insist on reading me the best parts when I report to work every morning.”

“Right. Because we’re pretending that you actually work for a living.”

He scoffed. “I do! I don’t get any special treatment on the base. My superiors kick my arse as much as they kick everyone else’s.”

“What do you do?”

“Navigation. Updating mapping systems, advisories for civilian boaters and commercial fishermen and the like.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“And your sister? What about her?”

“She works for the charity foundation our mother started. Do you want to know why I asked you out?”

“That was a quick change of subject.”

“Sometimes I have a short attention span.”

“Sure. Go ahead and tell me if you want.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know why I asked you out. Nothing about the two of us being together makes sense.”

“Are we together?”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe in fairy tale romance, even though I’m a prince, I don’t believe in love at first sight, sometimes I’m not even sure I believe in love— if you had grown up in my family you would understand why. It’s very confusing for me, and I can’t explain it, but I felt myself drawn to you.”

I had no idea what to say to that. I looked down at the table and fiddled with my napkin, trying to think of some way to answer that. I felt him squeeze my hand, and when I looked at him, he looked almost like a scared little boy. But I would not let him guilt-trip me into something I wasn’t comfortable with, no matter how charming he was.

“How many girls have you said that to over the years?”

He looked straight at me. “Not as many as you think, I promise.”

I shook my head. “I… I don’t even know where to start. There’s so much about this thing we have… that we might have… I really hope you understand how overwhelming this is.”

Nodding, he took my free hand in his free hand, and squeezed both of my hands gently. “I do. I don’t fully understand, because I have no idea what it’s like to live outside this bubble, but I’m trying. I know that this is new and scary for you, Ellie, and it is for me, too. You seem like such a wonderful person and I really want to get to know you better, and I hope I’m not being too forward when I tell you that I really fancy you.”

“I really like you, too, and to be honest, I didn’t think I would like you as much as I do, but this is really different from any other relationship I’ve ever had or come close to having.”

The logical part of my brain was telling me that I was making the stupidest move I had ever made. This had the potential to be disastrous. What if we officially started a relationship (or had we already? I needed some clarification on that front), the press started covering me, and then what if we broke up? That would be disastrous for me personally, because the press would probably still follow me to get pictures of me plotting my revenge. Being constantly followed by paparazzi would also seriously affect my ability to do my job. There was also the risk of reassignment. Although the plan was for me to be in London for several more years, I could be reassigned anywhere in the world tomorrow. Hell, this time next week, I could be working a desk job in Tajikistan.

The uncertainty and enormity of everything was really beginning to hit me for the first time, and I was suddenly terrified. I was incredibly tempted in that moment to rip my hands away from Jamie, stand up, tell him to forget he had ever met me, and march out of the restaurant (before dessert, mind you, which would have been a real sacrifice), without ever turning back. Then I would follow my original life plan of fulfilling my term in London, moving back to the United States, where I would live and work in Washington, forty-five minutes away from my parents, and meet and marry a nice American boy I could have a normal, at least somewhat stable and predictable life with.

But I stayed where I was. If only Jamie had never seen me, called me, and if only I had hung up on him again! But that wasn’t the decision he made, or the decision I made. Aren’t all of us stuck with the choices we make?

Jamie came home with me that night. No, we didn’t have sex, and no, he didn’t stay the night. He only stayed about half an hour, actually. We kept talking, and then we kissed for a while.

This wasn’t the quick, sweet kiss we had last week. This was more. Urgent. The first kiss was straightforward— just a kiss. This time, Jamie wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me against him, and my hands ended up on his neck, with my fingers venturing up to trace his jawline.

I can’t remember wanting anything as much as I wanted Jamie. It’s such a cliché, and I hate clichés, but he was intoxicating. I wanted more. I wanted him. I wanted him to just hold me. I wanted his hands on me, and I wanted my hands on him.

It was very difficult to say goodbye that night.


End file.
